


Sounds

by cactiist



Series: Michael's Vent Fics [1]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Bracelets, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Harm, Written at 12AM, more or less ?, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 22:27:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19710736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactiist/pseuds/cactiist
Summary: He hesitated. "M-maybe. It. It'll be fine though." A smile, ever so fake, made its way onto his lips. He wouldn't be fine.And Jeremy knew that as soon as Michael ended the call.





	1. Chapter 1

Tic. Toc. Tic. Toc. The sound of a clock ticking.  
  
Breaths quickening.

Quiet excuse.

Thumping downstairs.

Blood pumping.

Doors opening.

Phone calling.

The sound of the phone being answered.

"Hello?"

"Jeremy, I-I can-can't.", Michael stammered, tears rolling down.

The line stayed silent for a moment. "What do you mean you can't? Do-Do you want me to come over?"

He hesitated. "M-maybe. It. It'll be fine though." A smile, ever so fake, made its way onto his lips. He wouldn't be fine.

And Jeremy knew that as soon as Michael ended the call.

The sound of the bed creaking underneath his weight.

Clattering coming from a small wooden box as it was placed on the bed.

A click.

5 razor blades stared up at Michael, gleaming in the limited light. He looked over to the door to his bedroom. Then to the bathroom.

He'd be fine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of responding to any of the texts, he just shut off his phone and rolled onto his side, facing the wall.  
> He could always deal with it later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW// graphic self-harm !! please please please read with caution.

He got off of his bed and grabbed a razor blade between his index finger and his thumb, being careful not to cut himself as he placed it on the blankets in front of him. He closed the small wooden box with a 'click', the other four razor blades inside clattering a bit inside but otherwise making no other noise, much to his relief. Michael wasn't even sure if he could take any more noises, or sounds, even. He placed the box underneath his bed again, right behind the red box full of unfinished bracelets, thread, beads and tape.

Now to get over to the bathroom. There were very few reasons why Michael was so glad to have his bedroom in the basement with his own bathroom connected to it. Because then he could have privacy. Or at least, as much as he could possibly get, which was a lot.

Making sure to grab the small razor blade gently, Michael made his way to the bathroom, closing the door behind him as soon as he got in. He got into the tub, taking a shaky breath as he moved some of the bracelets on his wrists to expose old scars that marred his skin like cat scratches, thin and uncoordinated. Lightly tracing some of the old scars, he took another shaky breath, shallow this time.

Then cut a thin, but slightly deep line across his right arm. Transfixed by the bright red blood coming up and beading slowly, only to spread so that it showed where he cut, he made another one, only shallower. Not as deep. This time the blood beaded. And dried. Feeling tears gather, he made more, and more, all different sizes and shapes and varying in how the blood dried on his tanned skin. Soon there was an abundance of new, glistening red cuts on both his arms. The sting felt satisfying.

A few more cuts and he was done. He got up on shaky legs and stumbled over to the sink, his legs weak from the position he was in just a minute ago. Quietly turning the water on until it stayed lukewarm, Michael placed the razor blade underneath the water, only pausing to change the angle that he had it at since water had started to splash up towards him. Once the blade was clean and the water wasn't a dull pink, he grabbed some pieces of paper towel that he had in the bathroom and placed it under the water as well, letting it soak up the liquid and become damp and dripping. He turned the water off. Then started to clean the cuts, starting with his left arm. He hissed slightly from the flash of pain, hating how actually cutting into his skin felt good but cleaning the cuts? Not so much. But unless he wanted his crush, er, best friend to worry about the possibility of the damn cuts getting infected, Michael really had no choice in the matter.

Once his left arm was reasonably clean, he moved onto his right arm. And repeated the process.

As soon as he had finished, Michael was left with twelve bloodied pieces of paper towel, all different shades of red and pink from the water. The only reason why he even needed twelve pieces in the first place was that the water had made the blood run, therefore making the process harder to clean up.

Sighing, he threw the pieces in the garbage and grabbed the disinfectant and bandages, and started to bandage and disinfect his arms, placing the band-aids on the smaller, farther apart cuts and the gauz bandages onto everything else. Once he was done, he put everything back in its place, grabbing the bracelets from the tub and putting them back on. The weight was familiar, yet strangely comforting. He ran the shower briefly, cleaning up all of the blood that had managed to get onto the bottom of the tub before turning the shower off and exiting the bathroom, shutting off the light.

When he went back to bed and had placed the razor blade back in the tiny wooden box and the box back underneath his bed, he checked his phone briefly, noting a bunch of notifications from Jeremy, all ranging from concerned to genuine fear for Michael's safety.

Instead of responding to any of the texts, he just shut off his phone and rolled onto his side, facing the wall.

He could always deal with it later.

Head lighter.

No more sounds.

At least, not any that decided to boost his anxiety anymore.

For the moment, at least.


End file.
